You say the red sun of the east
has risen for the last time.
Guns pointed every which way
you caw and cackle, hoping the world
will mock and revile our dreams
if dressed in the dark garb
of the dungeon.
And yet your fisherman,
grimacing at the glint of
so many sardines hauled from the night sea,
cannot feed his own children.
And he who marches to the bowels of the earth
with sticks of dynamite at his chest
to find your “precious metals”
finds himself without coin.
We will freeze your laughter,
grind your smugness into dust.
The toil and tears that feed you
ferment in bitter places
you’re only dimly aware of.
There is more strength in a shriveled woman
scraping the ungiving soil beside a tin shack
than in all of your death squads
with their black hoods.
The day will come when we ride
down from the hills to drag you
from your haciendas—
then the hands that hauled your nets,
that clutched your dynamite, that scratched your soil
will turn you into guano.
When crows and vultures vanish
that fine morning,
the sun will shine brilliantly forever.